


Live Crow: Do Not Eat

by Dragoneisha



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M, Macro/Micro, Non-Consensual Touching, Scent Kink, Scents & Smells, Spit Kink, Trapped, Vore, kind of?, musk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 21:44:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21204572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragoneisha/pseuds/Dragoneisha
Summary: Whatever a human is, the Grand Highblood likes how it's real little, and how it fits real nice in his mouth.Too bad it tastes like shit.





	Live Crow: Do Not Eat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tinkerbull](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinkerbull/gifts).

> the title is a joke on dead dove: do not eat for a Fuckin' Reason, yall 
> 
> hi tinkerbull! first time writing musk/scent kink, and i think spit kink made its way in here somehow? i hope you like it, my friend!

Now ain’t that a tiny li’l motherfucker?

The Grand Highblood, moseyin’ along as he tends to mosey, got a thorn in his shoe. And by thorn, a’course, he means some kinda tiny-ass sword. Sharp enough to get through the sole, strong enough not to bend when it did. Didn’t hurt him none. If it had, whatever. Tiny prick from some tiny dick.

(Man, he’s so good at rhyming.)

But this tiny-ass sword, not to be confused with a tiny ass-sword, like buzzbeasts have, or, like, something else. It’s a li’l sword that’s popped itself right in his shoe, and he lifta his foot, a little curious. There’s not a thing hiding under there - which makes sense, it’d’ve been smushedif it was - but he can’t help but feel like he’s missing something.

Enter the tiny li’l motherfucker.

He’d tried scurrying, ratlike, behind the heels of the big G-H-B (the B stands for Blood, and also, like, Balls, because wow, he likes to juggle) and completely failed. Not even a fault on his part. Makaras have sharp eyes.

Now, the Grand Highballs - wait, no, Highblood - was the _only_ Makara, but that means any and all exclusionary statements were 100% correct, because they only applied to him.

Anyway, tiny bitch.

The little beastie is dainty enough to be picked up with two fingers. Makara sticks his pinky out, like a wader acting all fancy. The beastie squeals like a stuck oinkbeast and wiggles like a grub. It’s neither of those - it’s tan-pink and scrawny, and if it was his size it’d still be scrawny. 

“Well,” he chuckles, “look at what we got here!”

The little guy - hot-blooded against the pads of his fingers - tries to swat at him, struggle his way out. It doesn’t work, but the effort’s cute. The Grand Highblood rolls him between his fingers like he’s a li’l string of putty. He doesn’t get thin and fragile any more than he already was, but his elbow twists weird and his other arm gets shoved against the side of his face as he ineffectively flails.

“Hey,” barks the tiny bitch, or tries, anyway. His voice’s too small for a bark. A yip, maybe?

“Hey,” the Grand Highblood says, ‘cause it’s kinda funny. Make a repeater outta himself. Like a parrot. “Whatcha got goin’ for you, li’l thing?”

Li’l thing don’t got much goin’ for him but a mouth.

“What’s going for me? What’s going for me, dude? I’m a pint-sized motherfucker that’s getting rolled like a joint in the hands of Pennywise’s steroid-addicted daddy, that’s what’s going for me. You are really twisting my arm here bud, and not just in the way that you’re trying to force something out of me, but also that, uuuuh, my arm is actually twisted and if I so much as breathe too hard those nasty fuckoff claws are gonna split me in two.”

The Grand Highblood, a connoisseur of efficient claw care, sticks his tongue out a little bit between his two front teeth, as they have just enough of a gap to do so efficiently. Even with his fat-ass tongue. 

“Better watch your tone, there, li’l thing,” he says, voice dropping as he speaks to a deep, hoarse whisper. “A morsel shouldn’t talk back unless it likes bein’ chewed on.”

There is a pause, as he looks deep, deep into the oval black eyes of this little beastie. His chucklevoodoos aren’t technically _being used_, but… they’re not _not_ in use. When you get old and good enough at shit like that, it leaks. Like a fart out of a well-fucked ass.

“Are you going to fucking vore me,” says the little morsel, going about as red as his dumb shirt. “Like in animes.”

The Grand Highblood squints. 

Dave’s unintentional metacommentary goes over his head, which very few things do, considering the height of him, especially with horns attached. Ridiculously lucky, Dave is, to get that over on him. 

Returning _inside_ his head, though, the Grand Highblood is considering what he means by that. What, like is he going to be eaten? The Grand Highblood figured that was pretty obvious. He wouldn’t be a Makara if he didn’t find something tasty on the ground and eat it without thinking about it. Food is food, man. There are few senses that connect him closer to his faith than taste, though the sense of dominance and glee (because, of course, these are senses) are both close runner-ups. Eating this little dude would definitely ping every single one of those.

However.

He licks him, a straight, flat slurp of his tongue against the fragile little body, and is not super pleased with it. There’s a weird taste to this little mostly-hairless mammal - ew, does it have mange? He doesn’t need to catch mange. He takes too much care of his elaborate hairstyle to lose patches. Like, as a clown, he _could_ roll with the flow, but… it’s his style. You don’t fuck up a motherfucker’s style.

Oh, lord, his eyes came off.

Wait. Makara spits out some plastic and realizes those were just glasses, but his eyesight is - well, it’s not what it used to be, and this guy’s real tiny, okay?

The frightened little thing stares up at him with little red pinpricks for eyes, and it makes him mad, in some weird part of his brain he tries not to think about. The part where the feral bits come from. The bits that’re mad when someone shows their horns wrong or shows too many teeth, whether he really cares or not.

This little - thing, existing. That pisses him off more than any accidental display. Annoyed, he opens his mouth and pops the little asshole in.

He screams. Obviously. Makara straightens up and crosses his arms, as thoughtful as he ever gets, as the little thing in his mouth gets soaked through with spit too thick and viscous to be anything but dehydrated. Hey, water’s heresy when you got a good all-natural bubbly in front’a you, every clown knows that. 

The feeling of tiny fingers trying to catch on his palate as the funky little dude rolls in his mouth, struggling and shouting with mouth full of spit that isn’t his own, is unique. Enjoyable. The guy doesn’t even fill out his hollow cheeks, he’s less than a swallow. It’s an idea the Grand Highblood considers for a good little while.

God. He can’t do it. The guy tastes too fucking bad.

Makara opens his mouth and lets a mix of spit and bastard spool out onto his hand. He braces his tongue against his teeth and drags it back,collecting a small layer of spit where the Bad Taste lives, and then hocks it up onto the nasty-tasting little thing he’s found. It was trying to breathe, so when it coughs and makes noises of disgust, he’s kind of amused. Alright, it’s funny to do that. He almost does it again. 

No, that doesn’t accomplish anything. 

“What,” gasps a much wetter morsel, “the FUCK was that? What, I’m - I’m not tasty enough? What the fuck? Why put me in your mouth?! You just wanna stim with my succulent little human body, is that it? Does it get you off to spit on people? You got a spit kink?”

“Eh,” Makara answers, using his other hand to try and wipe the rest of the bad taste off of his tongue. The beastie - human - splutters.

“It’s - wait. Oh my god.” he laughs, and flops back in the pool of spit Makara made in his own damn hand. “Oh my god, I never thought wearing bugspray would help me in any way. You don’t like the bugspray, do you, you massive, overly muscly insect? You fucking - Praying Mantis with John Cena’s body? The Undatakah from WoW if he was impregnated by the bee furries people on e621 like?”

None of those words mean anything to the Grand Highblood. They are all fake, and he doesn’t care about them. He begins considering the human again, as he jabbers on. 

“Your breath stinks, by the way,” says the human, pushing himself up so he’s braced on his little handsies but his ass is still comfortably sat in the deepest part of Makara’s palm, where most of his spit pooled. “Like, the worst. Do you eat exclusively rotting meat and soda? Like, that’s what it smells like in there. I’d tell you to eat shit but it would actually help, you know, the _stank_ situation.”

Makara’s vestigial earfin - not that he’d use that word, he prefers “jabby useless-ass auditory scrungler” because it sounds funner to say - twitches in annoyance. Dude really thinks he can say that to him, huh? Just talkin’ mad shit? All the time?

Yeah, not happening.

“You know what really stinks,” he says, and then rubs the little shit in his armpit for a couple seconds. 

It’s really a quick thing. Just a few back-and-forth drags, the spit making it slicker than he’d actually want, but a man’s gotta drool what a man’s gotta drool. Even raising his arm he gets a little whiff of his own scent - he’s only put out more as he gets older, and he’s lived a long-ass time. Least it’s not fuck-happy pheremones or nothin’, those are way stronger. Less moist-smellin’, though. He feels like maybe that’ll be the part that bugs the little human the most.

He feels the human drag against his underarm even through his ribbed <<> hole. The guy doesn’t shout, but he hears a distinct gasp that gives Makara a wicked grin. 

“Yeah, sure, breathe it in, stupid,” laughs the Grand Highblood. “Whatever a fuckin’ human is, it’s dumb as hell.”

The human is limp in his hand when he draws it back. There’s a little lingering smell on his hand itself, even with spit smeared all over it. That’s what troll musk does, though. Gets everywhere. It’s evolutionarily important, or some other, heinously miraculous majjyk thing he doesn’t feel like researching. (It ruins the fun.)

“... I hate you,” says the human, breathless. “God. I hate you so much.”

“Heh,” says Makara, amused but uninterested, “not mutual.”

“Not that way, you piece of shit clown.”

Hey, the guy knows what clowns are. Point to him. However, minus a million points for being stupid enough to bother the Grandest of highbloods. Specifically, uh, the grand one. Yeah, that guy.

God. He’s so fucking funny.

“I think I wanna shut you up,” Makara decides. “ ‘least for now. I got shit to do other than mess with some heretic mammal. Though the tortu-rage of it all is appealing.”

“Oh, sure, line out your villainous motivations. Can I get you monologuing next?” spits the human with clear bile in his tone. The Grand Highblood’s not having any of that.

“Nah,” he says, and then pulls out the seat of his pants to drop the little shit in his underwear. He hates the smell so much, he can find a new one.

Can you blame him? Makara’s not really much of a talker.

The little beastie squirms, and probably yells something, but it’s too soft, too muffled, and too far away from Makara to hear or give a damn. He’ll take the bastard out before he sits on him, unless he accidentally manages to wiggle up his wastechute. 

Heh. 

Probably.


End file.
